


Doppelgänger

by of_moonlight



Category: IT (1990), IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: F/F, M/M, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, Trans Ben Hanscom, Trans Female Character, Trans Girl Ben Hansom, Unrequited, its only rated teen bc cursing, let stanley uris say the fuck word, or is it ;)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-31 22:39:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13984800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/of_moonlight/pseuds/of_moonlight
Summary: Stanley Uris is born in 1948. Stanley Uris was born in 1976. He is 12. He is 13.His hair is black. His hair is brown.He dies in a bathtub. He faces his fear.All of this is true, because fate is a bitch to the Losers Club.*on hiatus*





	Doppelgänger

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is the first work that i am posting to ao3. If the summary wasn't clear enough, the 1990 it universe and the 2017 it universe kind of collide into each other and Stan tries to deal with it.

Stan has a photographic memory. It can come in useful, for he only needs to see a bird once to always recognize it. He can also recite the periodic table from start to finish. It comes in less useful, because sometimes when he closes his eyes, all he can see is that same distorted face, over and over and over. He is not afraid- never afraid -but he is unsettled, in a deep, core-moving sort of way.

He thinks this, staring out the window. It is two or three o’clock in the morning. There is school tomorrow. He really needs to fucking sleep.

But he can’t, so instead he curses his stupid photographic memory and lies back against the pillows. There are still drawings on his wall that Bill had given him in first or second grade. Blue crayon drawings of houses and birds, the paper so old it was starting to yellow. He still couldn’t bring himself to throw them out. He shuts his eyes, and tries to rest again. As if on cue, the house groans loudly. He stills in bed, and his eyes snap open. It was just settling, he thinks to himself. It’s an old house after all, so it must just be shifting, sliding, curling up and settling into itself, into its foundation. This does not help. Stan doesn’t dare breathe, though he doesn’t know why. The house groans again, like wood pushed almost to breaking. The sound gets higher and higher. Dread sparks in his gut as he realizes that it sounds like a living thing. A living thing in pain. The glass starts to rattle in its windowpane. A glass bird on his nightstand rocks closer and closer to the edge. A framed drawing on the wall falls and shatters. His heartbeat thrums loudly in his ears, and he curls into himself. Just as he thinks he can’t stand it any longer, it stops, just as suddenly as it begun.

He sits up in bed, and something is deeply not right. Stan remembers a program he had heard on the radio the other day, about a rare condition to do with balance. The point of it was, you could look at the same place you have known all your life and it would be totally unfamiliar. As if he had just sat up into someone else’s life. Is the rest of the house like this? He stands up. The hardwood floor is uncomfortably cold underneath his feet. As he walks across the floor, he notices that the floor does not creak as usual. He reaches for the knob and-

“Fuck!” He tries to whisper, but it comes out odd and choked in his throat.

Silently, he jumps up and down, biting his lip and holding his hand to his chest. If it wasn’t for the current, odd situation, he probably would have found it a little bit funny. The knob of the door had been so hot it burned him. So, it seemed that opening the door that way was not an option. 

“Try the window,” a voice in his head whispered. That voice sounded a lot like Richie, so he was hesitant to listen to its advice. On the other hand, Stan didn’t exactly have a lot of options. While he is deciding, he has a bad idea. A shit idea, in fact. Much worse than the Richie-in-his-head idea. Stan, however, is nothing if not stubborn. He grabs the knob again, which is now cold (what the fuck) and turns it and opens it as fast as possible. Thankfully, the hall seems mostly normal. A glass shad on a lamp is shattered. The bulb flickers twice and dies. His mouth goes dry.

Slowly, he makes his way down the stairs. Only two percent of his brain is working, the rest having fled of to some far away place at the sheer wrongness of the whole situation. His arms do not feel attached to his body. At this point, he realizes that he is probably being the stupid white guy in the horror movie. As if on cue, something knocks on the door three times. Stan’s whole body tenses. His grip on the railing turns white-knuckled, and he stills on the stairs.

For some fucking reason, it is the Richie voice in his head that speaks up at this point when he needs literally anything else. “Open the door! Do it! What’s the worst that could happen?” His body unwillingly starts to move. The other, more sane parts of his brain seem out of commission at the moment. Stan’s palms are sweaty, joints stiff. It’s as if his brain is stuck in fog, not willing to go along with him. Against better judgement, he unlocks the door but keeps in the security chain, and opens it. It is raining outside and- his last remaining brain cell dies, with a brief cry of “what the fuck”.

The worst thing, Stan thinks, is that this stranger could be him. If, he supposes, everything were a little bit different (better, some dark part of his mind whispers) he could be this person. Dark hair, darker eyes, a Boy Scout cap instead of a kippah. No OCD. No substance of himself. No otherwise. However, he looks at the stranger (who is covered in blood, which might be important) his trembling lip and, maybe not. Maybe the only universal truth is that Stanley Uris is fucked up. In the meantime, his brain catches up to him.

“Is that-is that blood?” What a stupid thing to say. Fuck fuck fuck, of course it’s blood, would it be ketchup? Why is he like this, honestly.

“It’s not mine,” at least the Not-Him isn’t much better, anyway.

His arms are starting to feel more attached to his body, which is nice. Maybe it is because he has seen the monster behind the door was just a person (in desperate need of medical attention). 

“Can I come in?” The stranger asked.

This is really stupid, he thinks to himself. However, the stranger doesn’t exactly look threatening, per se, and that is the Richie voice talking again. He knows that if he turns away the stranger covered in blood, he would also feel very guilty. There is a five second dilemma in his mind, until guilt outweighs anxiety. So, Stan shuts the door to take out the chain lock, and opens it.

The stranger walks behind him silently as he makes his way into the living room, with its ugly old plush couch, pleather La-Z-Boy, and nice glass table. Everything is going smoothly until he realizes that the stranger will probably leave bloodstains on the couch.

“I’ll go get something for you to sit on,” he tells the stranger.

The stranger, whose name he should probably ask for, politely nods and starts to look at the paintings on the wall. Stan all but runs out of the room. He should probably call someone. This situation, whatever it was, needed a voice of reason other than himself. Richie, his heart said.

His heart was stupid. Stan started to mentally go through his list of friends. Bill would turn the whole situation into an ill-advised adventure, Mike was in Cali on a rare trip to his aunt’s, Eddie’s mom had grounded him, Ben was sick and stressed, and Stan really didn’t want to go bother her with more stuff. Beverly was the answer. The fact that she was the smartest in decision making of their friend group really didn’t hurt either. So, he picked the phone off of the hook and dialed her number.

It rung twice before she picked up.  
“Hello, Marsh residence,” she said in a monotone.  
“Bev, I really need your help,” he tried to ignore how desperate he sounded.  
“Wait, what’s wrong?”  
“There’s a lot of blood,” why did he phrase it like that.  
“I’ll be over in five,” and the dial tone sounded.  
Thank HaShem for Beverly Marsh.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please give kudos and comments if you can, I really appreciate all of them.


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